The Prodigal Son
by 3C
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes solves a case involving three triplet brothers, an inheritance, and a dead but hated grandfather.


_Note:_ In 2012, I attempted to emulate Conan Doyle's style to write a Sherlock Holmes fanfic for a school assignment. This is that fanfic. It totals 11 pages, but because I procrastinated (like all high schoolers tend to), it had to be ended quickly. Other than that, enjoy.

* * *

 **The Prodigal Son**

In all the years I have been in his company, I have never known Sherlock Holmes to be prone to anger. He was unequivocally as neutral as one could have imagined him to be. To Sherlock Holmes, such an irrational emotion only hindered observation and diluted deduction. In his own opinion it had no further place in society than as a destructive tendency, and in his own opinion did he consider it absolutely necessary to understand human nature. But for the irrationalities of humanity to have been within understanding, he was to be, in the regard of which he seemed nothing short of, near indifferent. His own observations gave reason to contribute to any possible theory to be considered, and it was from there he would eliminate and whittle them down until there could be no truer answer. If facts did not support his theory, then the theory altogether must be either false or incorrect. For him, when it had further no impact on the quality of his work, he dismissed its relevance until such a thing could be considered or applied again to his reasoning. With this the uncomplicated lives of the people around him served little interest. So much so, that I might add, that patrons or any few persons hardly did impede or threaten him during any moment in time. It had nothing to do with whatever case it was, be it inheritance or the like, but it was to common knowledge that Holmes was so dismissive he would have seemed not to care for it. On the contrary-if he did nothing but ignore it, it was quite within him to think more of it than the average person, turning it in ways about his head to come to an astounding deduction. However, though he was as much as impersonal to anger than could be humanly possible, it did not mean others were not subject to it. Indeed, as I pen this, it is with an inquisitive yet mystified admiration that I look at the world's greatest and only consulting detective, and yet with an air of solemn sympathy that I recall what took place so many years ago.

It was in late December of '83 when the grandson of the late Colonel Wellington came round. I had begun living at 221B Baker Street with Holmes earlier in the year of '81, and despite our minor disagreements involving his habit of either cocaine or opium and both my concern and disapproval of what would eventually lead to the deterioration of his mental health, our days were amiable if not well inclined towards each others. The two of us were conversing that morning about the events in the paper when Mrs. Hudson not only brought with her breakfast, but a client. In no time at all did we move to the sitting-room to see a man dressed too thinly for the weather outside, hat on his lap. He rose to greet us as soon as we entered, and it was not until the two of us sat again did he sit down once more, back straight and rigid and gaze forward.

He was a man of tall stature and imposing presence, and his features if not rugged were most assuredly handsome. Perhaps once in his youth he had been prone to dangerous activities, for a single old scar ran up from the underside of his chin to his high cheek-bone, near faded against the darkened tan of his skin. The natural commanding gruffness of his voice completely was completely overshadowed by the obvious exhaustion in his tone.

"I apologize for my presence here so early, but it is something that must be discussed in utmost confidentiality."

"It is just as well," Holmes replied. "As I no doubt believe that it is safer here. Now that you have settled, I would predict your appearance here from Afghanistan would have something to do with your grandfather's passing and the inheritance that is to be split amongst you and two others of the family in military service."

If the man was astonished, there could not have been a lesser word for it. His eyes widened slightly and his jaw would have dropped open had it not been for some sort of military discipline that kept his back straight and his features decidedly kept.

"However did you know of that?" he wondered aloud. He looked at Holmes as though he had never seen him before, and the deadened lack of energy that had been in there prior was no longer present.

"The death of a war veteran who has contributed well to his country and who is similarly well in his years is hardly one to be dismissed."

"But the inheritance-?"

"It is natural to assume that the relatives of such a powerful man would not be left an inheritance of sort, and he would take great means to ensure that each of his grandchildren received a set amount."

"Then my journey? However did you know I was in the military?"

"In the military, as soon as a regarded superior enters the room, a man is expected to stand at attention and salute before any other action. The angle between your feet was precisely thirty degrees apart, and you have been trained to stare not directly at someone when talking to them, but a little ways behind them so that your gaze will not move when the speaker does. You are enrolled into the service, and most recently fulfilled your military requirement most probably as agreed between you and your grandfather to ensure a place in his will. As to the question of the journey, while you are accustomed to long hours without sleep, I would assume that a disruption in the pattern such as your sudden return to London would mean quite a distance."

The man shook his head and leaned back. "Astounding," he murmured. "You are every bit as great as I have heard you. Then, if you should know all, you should also know that this inheritance is not something that is to be freely given, even with my years in service. My grandfather was a great believer in fairness and hard work, and though I should not speak ill of his decisions, I profess to some point that I wish it was simpler to gain my part of it. You will understand I have great need for the money."

"You have a smidgen of blue at your fingertips. Cheap trousers are, as a general rule of thumb, coloured by cheap dye. It does not take much to rub the colour out."

"Quite," our visitor smiled, however thinly, and then sat up straight. "I am Edmund Wellington. My grandfather was the late Colonel Wellington, whom by society's standards, was the very picture of morality and that of a man. For all three of us brothers, he was a strict man whom we despised with every fibre of our beings, but did not so much dare as to revolt against. He believed in both hard work and discipline, and any time he returned, if our education was so much as neglected, we would meet a lashing.

"However, you must understand he was not always like this. The military first and foremost was his life. He met his wife there, and she was the loveliest woman to whom I am sure I would have adored had she not had her unfortunate passing giving birth to my father. In that, he stifled my father with as many rules and regulations as could possibly allow, and my father, being a rather meek man, complied with all except one. Against my grandfather's wishes he married my mother before left for his service where he was killed, leaving her alone in the world with no connections other than that of my grandfather. I do not believe my grandfather thought highly of her, but when she gave birth to three children, all of whom were male, I think he believed that he could start over. My father was often very sickly in his youth, and so I suppose my grandfather believed he could smash out that nonsense in us should it appear.

"It was quite hard in the beginning in our youths, but we did manage. When we came of the appropriate age, Blake and I myself were quite alright in the military, but our younger brother, Paxton, was not. It was difficult for him to have made the transition, and though the two of us sought to help him, it was to no avail. In the military, you must understand, discipline is the very key of it. They do not care if you are related family, or if you have relatives higher up in the military. I would not have abused it for myself if such a system existed, but I would have for Paxton. As it was, we suffered in silence, though with our units, Blake and I were well amiable enough. Paxton never opened up, and I suppose that is what began most of his depression."

"You spoke of another brother," Holmes interrupted.

"Yes. Blake. He is the eldest of us three," said our visitor, "but he is not a man I would consider a true friend. I am only surprised that you have not heard of the consequence of his actions rather than his name. His reputation is preceded only by the most shocking of scandals, and even then his name is linked to three quarters of them, even if not in print. You must understand I do my brother no injustice by telling you the truth behind his most amicable facade.

"That my grandfather passed quite naturally did not affect us in the slightest towards our animosity towards him, but even now I am sympathetic towards him. The only reason why we only recall his memory is to fulfill the conditions that will grant us his inheritance. Blake, on the other hand, would sooner murder us than to allow for either Paxton or I to achieve our shares. As soon as he returned back from service—much earlier than I—he saw fit to begin gambling, and I fear it has become far too complicated. Being my grandfather's favourite, he took it upon himself to obtain what he could of his memory. Most of my grandfather's belongings have been taken, and I assume sold or auctioned. The three of us drifted apart as soon as we entered service, but we were never quite close to begin with, as we were only bound by a sense of kinship.

"Regardless, this is I have come to you today—to help me and my brother Paxton achieve our shares before one who most assuredly will prevent it kills us instead."

In a show of contemplation, Holmes was quiet. He studied the man before him with a sharp gaze, before standing abruptly.

"Have you ever entertained guests?"

"Never," exclaimed the man. "I have never had time for such a thing. Paranoia is quite a thing to be had once you are in the military."

"Then, I must request this of you: Will you take us to your home? I must talk to the lady in your house before I begin any professional inquiries."

Stunned, our visitor could only acquiesce to his request. "I will not ask of how you know of her, for I am sure it is another deduction on your part. It is quite alright with me, but I must warn her of your appearance, for she does not do well with strangers. It would be best if I were to make the trip myself there to prepare her and then receive you with her instead of having her open the door to the shock of men she does not know."

"That is fine." Holmes turned to me. "You will, of course, come with me?" he asked. "I understand you have been extending advertisement for your medical services, but I profess that I would be most assured if you were to come with me."

"Of course!" I said at once. "I would more so be at ease as well."

It was with this we made arrangements. We would arrive on the first of January by train, and a coach would be sent to bring us to the house of Edmund Wellington.

* * *

Our visitor had just scarcely left our apartment when Holmes stood up abruptly and, after offering it to me and my accepting it gladly, the two of us indulged in our shared habit of tobacco.

"I will be most obliged should you carry with you your revolver, but I do not suspect we shall spend any more than a half a day there. With that, I must ask you a question: Watson, have you ever been in habit of deceit? Have you ever forged papers for your patients, anything of the sort?"

"I have most assuredly not," I replied, shocked and angered at the slight in the implication of my professional pride.

He smiled. "You will forgive me, then, for my rudeness, but you see here where my thoughts were taken. Commonly, a man will use "never" when he is attempting to deceive someone, especially since with asked something including an "ever"."

"It is an automatic assumption to make," I replied, but I was abated all the same by his apology. "People often think others are dishonest and selfish."

"I do not believe in assumption, or any predilection of its kind," Holmes replied. "It blocks up the mind, and it is a matter of bad taste. I am just observing it."

"Then why mention it?"

Holmes continued to look unperturbed.

"My dear fellow," said he, "I do it so that you may possibly entertain your own notions about this mystery."

* * *

The building was not grandiose by any means. It was a well-to-do one with a rather homely feel to it. The windows were cracked and clouded by dust, the shutters around the windows seemingly dull in their lack of colour where they were nearly falling off. It seemed more oppressing than anything else, a reminder of days long past and a place for one to lay down his weary head. As we made it up the broken stone steps, Wellington did well to remind us of the lady.

"She is of a most frail disposition," he said, just as the door opened.

The "lady" was as frail as Edmund Wellington had begun to describe her. She was of a small stature, paler than would have been expected, but her hair, her dress, and the powder on her face were all immaculate to the point that she would have been grossly attractive had it not been for the haunted look in her eyes. She pointed her eyes downwards as we entered, and, Wellington, who had come with the coach to greet us, placed the palm of his hand on her shoulder. It was to my surprise that she jolted away as though alarmed, and with a frightened glance at all of us, she eyed as with trepidation.

"She is unaccustomed to the presence of strangers," said Wellington, "But she adores this house. Would you show us to the sitting-room?"

At this, she seemed to be perfectly friendly. Her initial fear of our presence soon withered away into nothing as she brought us through a small hall-way adorned with slight paintings of common value and into a small sitting-room. It was not spacious at any means, with chairs nearly crammed into tables and bookshelves blocking up every bit of space as could be allowed in the small area.

For a moment we shared in the silence, before the door was rapped and Wellington, along with the mysterious lady, disappeared to greet what were unexpected guests.

"There is a great deal of problems with detectives," Holmes said suddenly. His eyes rose to where Edmund Wellington had sat. In both the frown on his mouth and the almost neutral way of his posture did he not think kindly of the man that had been sitting there only moments ago. Rather, he seemed disinclined to share his occupation. "And not because they wish to be consulting detectives."

"I would assume you would have nothing but the highest regard for the profession, being one yourself."

"When a man first becomes to be a detective, in general, he asks too many questions." Holmes said, and leaned back and lit his pipe. "For that matter, he wants to know every last tiring detail. He will want to know the appearance of the assailant, the gender, and the age. He will want to know more than necessary about the murder weapon in question. He will want to know every insignificant thing instead of the _right_ things, and instead, he will look at them all and say, 'Here, I have found the solution' but no nothing at all if pressed! I tell you, there is to be an aim before one begins asking questions, and to know what to ask—there is no good sense in asking what can be deduced."

He had no more finished these mysterious words when another man who greatly resembled Wellington entered. Indeed, I would have thought it Wellington himself had it not been for the fact that the man himself soon followed through.

"I am Paxton," one of them said, and shook hands with us solemnly, before standing to the side politely.

"Formally, I welcome you to my house," Edmund said, and sat down on the chair where he had been sitting only moments prior. "Under the reassurance of my brother, for I was unsure as to whether or not this would be best settled between us brothers or involving an outsider, I will now tell you of the inheritance that my grandfather set upon us. I understand that this is abrupt, but there is a limitation in the time we may spend stewing upon it.

"My grandfather was never a friendly soul. He was quite strict in his lessons and demanded we show discipline above all. In the terms to gain the inheritance, my brothers and I must first put forth several years of military service and achieve admirably—that, we have. However, the second condition to achieve our share of the inheritance is that we must find where it is. He may have been of a sound mind, but he was notorious for his desire to only reward those who would work hard to the end of their days."

Holmes in the meantime, had been searching about his pockets since the start of Edmund's dialogue. Curious, I turned my head towards him but he did not look at me. Instead, he put the items out of his pockets onto the table before us, and turned the pockets themselves inside out.

"I have lost my wallet, Watson," he said with panic in his voice. "You recall I had it on me when we left, yes?"

"I saw. But if you cannot find it here, it must have been when we were leaving the train in the crowd."

Almost immediately, the Wellington brothers themselves checked their own wallets, rifling through the contents to check.

"No," Edmund, I believe, sighed. "It is all there."

Paxton nodded his agreement, and then we all sat back again. The silence was becoming near unbearable, so I opened my mouth.

"Whoever was that lady who opened the door?"

"She is Edmund's wife, Ophelia." Paxton said dourly. "She is of a shy disposition to strangers. The two of them do not live well on what they have, so I must suggest to Mr. Holmes that he solve the mystery of where the inheritance may be so that we may all have this grief done with."

Holmes was not insulted by any means. "Very well, then. Let me begin my investigations by first asking Mrs Ophelia Wellington several questions."

"Will I be alone?"

It was a striking voice, soft perhaps like a bell. Dressed simply in a plain cotton dress, the lady entered not nervously but perhaps regally, a far cry than how she had earlier on but moments before. Not even when she sat down, Holmes proceeded to ask her several questions.

"How long have you been living here?"

"Since I have married my husband, Edmund, but three days ago."

"A person would say that is quite a hasty one, Mrs Wellington," Holmes replied.

"Oh no!" said she. "We are very much in love."

"Hmm! I suppose you are happy. Do you know of your husband's gambling debt?"

Startled, she shook his head. "No, I do not. How would I be aware of it if I did not know?"

"Ah! But that is the point. And how long have you known your husband?"

"For the two years since we have first met, I would presume."

With an almost dismissive air he passed his gaze over to her.

"Sergeant Wellington," he spoke, addressing the one sitting down, "I must ask of you several questions, the first of which why you do not acquire some officers of the police to offer to you protection against your second brother."

"They determined there was no true threat. In fact, the investigation let out a few days ago, so you shall find that they have already touched all that is to be touched in this house."

"Ha! So it appears." Holmes muttered to himself, and swept along the way.

I followed him through-out the house, half-listening to him as he spoke on about the uselessness of the police in this sort of situation. Behind me, I could hear the beginnings of what sounded like an argument between the three left in the sitting-room.

"Come, Watson. I do not doubt we shall find some peace yet from this hardly interesting case. I admit it is only by the late Colonel Wellington's reputation that I accepted."

"You did not ask Paxton Wellington of what he knows."

"I do not need to ask him. I already have the clues, and now there is no better time than to go about exploring. Our good friend Edmund Wellington is not as he seems."

"Do you mean to suspect Wellington himself? I thought he was perfectly honest."

"My dear fellow," replied he, with mirth. "It is because you are far too trusting. What other purpose would a man sacrifice so much other than to gain? A man who does something to put others first will generally have good reason for it. I should hardly think as well about people in general as you, and that is why you have not come to this conclusion."

"Do you suppose he has something to hide?"

"You will find that liars often will respond with longer sentences. Though he was forthcoming with his information, and I am sure there is more to the story, he did not lie in regards to what he _knew_. But everyone has something to hide, Watson. It is a matter of finding out what it is, and I suspected it had something to do with who he _was._ "

"I did suspect something when I saw the bills."

Holmes hummed approvingly. "Ha! His wallet, you see, was filled with foreign currency instead of regular pounds. If there is a huge amount of foreign currency in a man's wallet, then he has recently been abroad and has not yet had time to exchange it."

"But we have been told all he had been in service until just a few days back. Perhaps he had been on vacation?"

"A person who is in habit of taking long vacations will not keep plants. The marriage with the Mrs happened only but a few days ago! I hardly think she will have time to have adapted to her new surroundings to bring plants."

"For God's sake, Holmes, tell me now or I shall go mad!"

My old friend smiled, and led me into a closed room. Upon opening the drapes, he revealed it a study of sorts. "Have you not noticed the furniture in the sitting-room?"

"They are crowded," I admitted, though I could not see why that was important. "But they are most pleasing to the eye."

"Indeed! The Mrs is a proud if not shy woman with a fine taste in aesthetics—so for what reason would she have furniture that would not match the size of the rooms or fit with the decor? The obvious answer would be because they have moved there from a larger house.

"What are the facts, Watson? We know that all three brothers despise the grandfather, but we only know this from one brother's point of view. Blake Wellington took a hold of furniture that once belonged to his grandfather. The theory that was told of us was that most probably this was foul play, but as Colonel Wellington died of natural causes, this cannot be, so we discard that. We must find a theory that suits all of these facts, and does not draw into question doubts, and we must ask ourselves questions. I asked myself, what could be the motive? Not monetary gain, or at least, in the regard told to us, for Blake Wellington would have sold it to fulfill the so-called 'gambling' Edmund Wellington spoke of to us. We know now that it is not one of them, but all three of them that are in debt. And it is not only men who are limited to debt. A woman could not have been privy to the darker aspects of society's nature, you say, but ah! That is assumption. A woman could very well lose as much as a man, so we cannot disregard the gender. Who, what, where, why and when are questions we must ask ourselves. The fact that remains clear throughout this is that together, all four of them did not share any kind thoughts towards the former master of the abode from whence these lovely furnishings came.

"And there it is! It is of unfortunate news that the Colonel Wellington should have entertained a favourite son. Despite his career, he was mostly indulgent towards his only son and his only grandchildren so much so that when his son and two of his grandchildren met their father's fate, he could not help but search out desperately for the remaining son, who had become estranged from him, but was unable to by the time he suffered from a disease known as death. That son, whom I must tell you, is properly named Blake Wellington. It was he who spoke to us back in Baker Street regarding his concerns as 'Edmund', and it was he who played the role of 'Paxton' when we arrived back. It is a simple matter—when he speaks, he has a tendency to try to still the expressions on his face in a mock example as to not allow others to read him. A gambler will often be in habit of doing such a thing, a military man even more so."

"But the two people who he found-?"

"Ah! But that is not conclusive. It is to common thought that in the whole world, there are always going to be people who resemble you. I do not doubt that upon hearing news of his grandfather's untimely death did Blake Wellington decide to play the card that all three were alive and receive the entirety of the fortune. He did not need to have a second Blake Wellington simply because it would make sense for the estranged son to play no part in these proceedings willingly."

"But the lady?"

"She is Blake Wellington's legal wife. She is well aware of her husband's debt for when I asked her of it, she replied quite calmly. When two newly-weds are attempting to obtain money, gambling is hardly a thing a wife should be at ease with, regardless of her inclined nature."

"Do you mean to say that they are all co-conspirators of a sorts?"

"Exactly so. It is unfortunate, then, that they have attempted this farce to gain an inheritance that unfortunately does not exist."

"Does not exist?" I asked, shocked. "But how is that possible?"

"Even if you should look throughout the estate or the furniture," Holmes cried, "You shall find none of it! Alone in his misery was the late Colonel Wellington, who eventually donated the entirety of his wealth to several charities. It is only to the unfortunate luck of the four that they arrived to England after his death."

"How do you know of this?"

"It was in the paper several months ago," Holmes said simply, "If any of them had truly lived as long here in London as was said, they would've planned more carefully for their false identities. It is simple enough now what will happen to them—they are not, in the least, humble. Should we leave them to their own devices, they will eventually be forced to vacate, as they are thieves living the house of a deceased man. I have followed the trails of their gang for quite some time. I myself had already grown suspicious once he had introduced himself as the late Colonel Wellington's son, and have played a few cards of deceit from my own hand. Lestrade should arrive at some point."

"How is it that the events turned out as they did?"

"As Colonel Wellington was a private man, with no further relations, no doubt he would not speak of the three grandchildren he had grown to love, but no doubt old age and the use of being the chess master of a man's life would make Blake Wellington dead in his eyes. He struck him off the inheritance once he had learned his favourite son had betrayed him, but he loved him well enough to leave him with a trifle for when he returned."

"You said there was no inheritance."

"I do not lie," Holmes said rather fondly, but he stood, and pressed his fingers against the polished surface of a desk. "But you will see that everything here, despite being well cared for, hold the marks of what will unmistakably be the signs of children growing up. And this!"

From the bookshelves, he plucked the Bible.

"An old fashioned man will keep his valuables close to home, simply because he has no reason to trust anyone else." He showed me the story. "Doubtless he would have wanted Wellington to return to him, and doubtless he would have wished to speak of old days long past."

What was hidden between the pages was a single photograph, depicting an almost regal looking military man, upon whose knee a young boy that greatly resembled Wellington sat.

We were interrupted by the shriek of rage; myself being armed and ready to shoot, and Holmes being light-footed as always, the two of us returned to the sitting-room where the police of Scotland Yard were apprehending the criminals. Upon Wellington's face was the ugliest look of pure loathing hate I have never seen on any other man since that upon the dead man's in "A Study in Scarlet", and he thrashed about like a mad man. The other man beside him looked sullen, while Ophelia looked frightened as she was to be led away.

The day marked the first and to be last time I witnessed the attitude of the world's only consulting detective towards the fathomless and unpredictable inclinations and dispositions of humankind: as an observer, the case was nothing different than his usual share, but as a human being, he found it enough to warrant slight respects; when the prodigal son in question was being led out, Holmes presented the photograph to him, and stared impassively as it was ripped to shreds before his eyes. He did not make a comment as we took a cab, and said nothing more.

When we returned to our humble abode in 221B Baker Street, the two of us indulged in our shared habit of tobacco, and Holmes began to speak of the irrational nature of humans in regards to nature with as neutral and cynical a disposition as he could possibly have.


End file.
